Wings of Light Special Edition

by Lloyd Baron

  Everything about the girl is small and frail: her shoulders, arms and face all look weak and tired. She has extremely long blond hair which rests on the seat beside her. Her skin is pale; her features are smooth and untouched by worry and age. She must only be a child, no older then fifteen. Derry’n does not know how or why he is now riding in the wagon yet he knows it has something to do with the light that came from the ghoul. He glances at the other two people who share the wagon; a man and a woman.

  “They cannot see you,” the girl says softly. “They are not real any more. They are merely shadows of the past.” She regards them for a moment before continuing. “He is called Radnor Rajendra and she is Shandelia Rajendra his wife. They have come from afar, I don’t know where, but they are heading somewhere with great urgency.” She turns back towards Derry’n and smiles warmly. “My name is Molly. Just Molly.”

  Before he can speak she leans forwards to put her finger to his lips, silencing him. “We are here to watch. Once you have seen what it is you need to see then you will wake and when you do you will have to leave your home. They will be coming.”

  “Who will be coming?” he says as she sits back. “Am I in danger?”

  She nods once and then answers in a slow careful manner. “We do not know who or what they are. We know they have been alive for many thousands of suns and that they have destroyed the world twice but failed to win the fight to claim it as theirs. There are six of them and they are very dangerous and most probably are now aware that you are alive.” She regards him fully now, giving to him all of her attention. “The last Princess has to be protected. When she dies it will be the end of everything as we know. You and nine others will come to me in the city of Gossa-Mesa. We will guide you and protect you from them the best we can. But if I know where to find you then so do they. They will stop at nothing to have you all dead. As yet they do not know when the Prophecy would begin. The Angels have known for some time. The Six will come, so you better leave for Atlant the second you wake from this dream.” She breaks her intense stare and turns back to the gentleman in the wagon. “Watch. This may be important. We are only observers here so do not try to intervene. These events have already happened, but we are being shown them for a reason.”

  “What reason?” Derry’n asks numbly. He cannot believe what he has just been told. A cold chill touches him softly on the back of the neck and he shudders visibly. The girl does not respond; she just watches the couple sitting beside her. Derry’n watches her for a second more before he too watches the scene unfold before him, wishing all the time that he could do something to intervene.

  7

  FOUR DREAMS

  The wagon bounces over a fallen tree branch and both of the occupants tumble forwards off of the bench. Shandelia drops the bundle of rags she had cradled on her lap as she does so and they slip under the seat opposite. She shrieks and clambers over a fallen trunk to retrieve them. Radnor reaches the bundle first and carefully lifts them into his wife’s arms, pulling the layers back to reveal the sleeping face of their first born son. Shandelia wipes at his cheeks with a shaky hand before sitting back upon the bench. Radnor calls for the driver to slow and to watch for more obstacles in the road. He reaches across to comfort his wife, smiling warmly into her stricken face. “It’ll be fine my sweet,” he coos. “We will be there soon and he will be safe.” He is about to sit himself when the wagon lurches again. He brings himself around to chastise the old oaf driving the horses but freezes at the sight of huge black shapes circling around the wheels.

  “What are they old...?” A wolf leaps from the bushes beside the road and lands beside the driver. The elderly man cries out in alarm and tries to beat the wolf away but the beast is frenzied and grabs at his skinny arms, pulling him clear of the wagon and into the darkness beyond. His ragged cry ends in a gurgling, as blood fills the hole left in his ruined throat.

  The horses panic and bolt forwards once again, pulling the wagon onto the dangerously damaged path. The wolves give chase howling in fury as their prey increases the distance between them. Radnor clambers into the driving seat and reaches out for the reins but they have fallen between the horses and drag across the dirt road. He watches helplessly as they career onto Rise Forest Road. He remembers the uncomfortable journey into the village down this bumpy road the day before; they had nearly overturned then and that was at a reasonable speed. The wagon begins to shudder violently under him and as if the world has slowed, the wagon tips forwards and he, his wife and their baby are catapulted into the air. Splinters of wood and dirt explode outwards as the tumbling wagon splits apart, sending its occupants hurtling in different directions. He hears the terrified screams of his wife cut off abruptly as he is flung against a tree, snapping bones in his legs and back.

  Darkness closes in around his battered body and death waits just within its borders to claim him. It is then that he sees the pack of snarling beasts approaching from the wood. One of the five grey wolves races after the horses as the others enter the crash site. They find the dead body of Shandelia among the wreckage and between them begin to pull her apart.

  Radnor watches them with dulled senses, unable to do anything to stop them, unable to do anything to save himself. And then he remembers their child. New horror sweeps into him and he searches the site with his eyes, locating the bundle of rags only a few feet away from where he has landed. The bundle moves and a soft cry rises from it. The wolves look up sharply and begin to move towards the sound. Radnor cries out at the beasts but after a quick glance they deem him unimportant and continue towards the sound. The largest of the wolves reaches the baby and lowers its muzzle into the rags, opening its powerful jaws ready to snap what is making the noise.

  An arrow strikes it in the throat and it flies backwards, dying instantly. The others move back, watching the darkness with eyes more suited to the night then Radnor’s. However he can make out movement and realizes that he is surrounded by men. More arrows fly into the site killing all but one of the wolves who turns and flees into the woods. From out of the darkness a short bearded man emerges carrying a long bow and an empty quiver. He lowers himself to the ground beside Radnor, pulling the bundle over with his free hand. The stranger opens the coverings of cloth and stares down at the crying child. “Protect him,” Radnor manages to say as the Reaper moves from the shadows to claim him.

  Wizo’d Fallharis slips out of the tree line and into the glorious sunshine; the pull of his powers leading him into a large clearing within the jungle. He looks around at his surroundings yet can only see the thick canopy of the surrounding trees. He knows this is the place, his search is over. He allows himself a brief smile before lowering his tired old frame to the grass. He fumbles to open his pack with gnarled fingers, retrieving a phial of green powder. He quickly opens it and sprinkles some of the substance into his palm. The color changes to ebony. Wizo’d brushes it away before pushing himself back up to his feet. “This would make a good landing site,” he says to himself.

  He lifts both arms into the air and beckons for his powers to hear his call. The grass around him stirs and the trees seem to lean away from the small old man. Fire dances from his fingertips circling into the sky, forming the sacred symbol of his order, a prism with an eye in its center, high above him. He blasts all the energy remaining in him through the heart of the flaming pattern and it explodes into a ball of glowing red light. From the heart of the radiant light a winged beast swoops down until it breaks into the world and lands only feet away from the standing figure. The old man swoons backwards for a moment but the creature rushes forwards to prevent him from falling.

  Wizo’d regains his senses instantly and pats the thick-scaled hide of the beast as he straightens his back. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assures it. “No need to be so protective, Gerene.” He turns to regard the thing he has summoned to help him in his search, an old friend. It is almost twice the size of an average horse with two large muscular legs at the rear leading to its slender bod
y. It has no arms; in their place are two massive wings which are now folded back. It uses the bend of its elbows as for-limbs and hunches itself down into a sitting position. It has a long neck with a bird-like head, which it moves with small jerky movements. The entire creature is covered with multicolored scales which shimmer in the bright sunlight like a million rainbows.

  This is a Valifort; a beast formed of magic, summoned from the very elements that make up the world. It was the first summons that Wizo’d had called upon; that all mages call upon. It is a practice beast meant only for training of the summons skill but many of his order became attached to it and call upon it for comfort and companionship. He too was one of those at first, but had moved on from the Valifort after a couple of suns, proffering the icy Hivitrest Horse. But now in his extreme old age all he can manage to summons is the weak and docile Valifort. He pats the creature’s beak fondly and smiles warmly at his old friend. Since he turned eighty-one and the powers to summon the other creatures had gone, he and the Valifort have become great friends. A part of the training with the Valifort is learning how to read its mind. It is a skill that Wizo’d had learned very quickly and he had become fast friends with all his summons but none closer than with Gerene, the only one of his summons which he has named.

  He casts his mind back to the beginning of his journey and to the politics which have cast a shadow over the lands he left behind. All they needed was a new name, a name to be proud of, a name which they would be happy to call home. Two names were put forward: Atlant and Alan. Each has deep meaning and a history all of its own. Atlant is more a myth than fact but still holds great strength in the hearts of the nation. It is the name written in the book of Prophecy as the birthplace of the last Princess. An age-old story of war and destruction where the grand city stands defiant of the evil and pushes it back into the shadows. The other name, Alan, is that of a great king of the past and the writer of some of the prophecies of ages. He had been the last great king who had rejoined all the lands as one under his command during the first war of the world. It was just a story and no-one really believes in him, yet as a symbol of peace and power there is no better. Wizo’d has no preference and only wishes a decision will be made before he returns to the lands. If it is not decided soon then his fear is that war will break out between the two major factions of the old world. That is his task in all this. He was sent to prove or disprove the existence of King Alan by answering one of the questions in the Prophecy, the existence of the blood stone.

  Gerene tosses its mane of shimmering scales as a figure pushes out of the growth behind Wizo’d, approaching on silent feet. The hand falls upon the old mage’s shoulder before he is even aware of the intruder in the clearing. He turns with a start and smiles wearily.

  “You gave me a shock, young Elis,” the old man says as he chuckles away his embarrassment. “Where have you been to give an old man a scare like that?”

  The tall elfwoman steps around him and pats the Valifort's beak before turning her startling blue eyes upon Wizo’d. “Finding a new pet,” is her reply. She twitches her head towards the trees where a hulking brown bear sits watching the two of them. Wizo’d jumps again on seeing the beast and then chuckles, shaking his long grey beard.

  “You and your pets, my dear!”

  “You and yours,” she says patting the Valifort again. “He’s a very old thing.” Her eyes flick back in the direction of the bear. “Poor old Mattious.”

  “Mattious?”

  “Yes.” She takes in her surroundings for the first time and indicates their location with a swirling of her forefinger. “Is this the place?” Wizo’d stares at her for a few seconds, her slender beauty underlined with a physical power. He has seen her hunt; he would never want to get on the wrong side of her and her daggers. She stands almost twice his hunched height and puts her weight onto one hip, one hand placed above her belt and the other hanging limp. However her casual appearance is all part of her danger. They had become friends almost at once. She could not believe that his world was a desert of sand and no water. She had never heard anything so curious in her entire life saying it was impossible to have that much sand without it being on a beach by the sea. Once she realized it was not a joke she became upset for him, it must be horrible to live in a place with no trees or water. “Wizo’d!”

  “Yes, my dear. This is the place.” The Valifort roars suddenly rearing up to its full height, extending its mighty wings. “What is it, Gerene? What have you-?”

  The huge brown bear launches itself at the old mage, a clawed paw tearing at his cloak. Wizo’d goes down under the attack, only able to defend himself with his thin arms. “Elis! Elis call him off!” He shrieks as the powerful jaws close over his wrist, hauling him upwards. Blood gushes from the wound, pouring down his arm into the frenzied bear’s maw. He would have been torn limb from limb if it was not for his summons creature. The Valifort swings its sharp beak into the bear’s back, ripping it open. The beast drops lifelessly to the ground. Before the old man can recover the elf-huntress is upon him, daggers drawn and thrusting into his chest.

  He mutters the words, “quick fire,” and flames leaps from his palms. Elis screams and falls away from him, dying instantly as she hits the ground beside the bear. He only has a brief moment to gape at the girl before collapsing with lack of blood. He whispers more words of magic and covers his body with a soft white light to heal himself.

  An arrow strikes the Valifort in the side of the head, dropping harmlessly from its rock hard skull. It scoops the weak old man up and places him on its back. Spreading its wings wide it takes to the sky. Wizo’d regains consciousness and clutches hold of Gerene's scales. From the jungle all around the clearing come elves dressed in long black robes. He recognizes some of them from the village he had stayed at only a week before. They had treated him like a king back then. Lastly, a tall blond woman enters dressed in shimmering emerald green. She strides over to the dead girl and kicks her limp body aside, dropping to her knees where she had been sprawled and digs her fingers into the soft earth.

  Wizo’d watches in horror as the ground splits, the earth cascading aside like a breaking wave on a rock. From the created hole a black, slick rock the size of a melon rises into the air. The woman reaches out and takes hold of it between trembling hands, laughing hysterically as she does so. The old mage knows what it is she holds; the very thing he was sent to find and destroy; the very thing legend says will empower the demon and destroy the world. He points at the woman and whispers at the Valifort to lower him into his range. But before the creature can obey it is shattered into a thousand tiny, bloodied pieces by a black beam shooting up from the ground. Wizo’d screams as he plummets to the feet of the laughing woman and his death.

  Ori places the white lily on the mark stone of his father’s dying place. It could not be six hundred suns since his father’s death could it? That day had been a day for regrets more than remembrance. And an oath lay upon his shoulders. Now at almost his thousandth birth-sun Ori would have to place that oath onto another; one of his own sons. “Oh Father,” he whispers stroking a hand over the flat white slab of marble used to mark the location his father passed over to the Ober-world. White marble had been his Fathers favorite stone. Angels were not keen on using things made of the earth, preferring to use woods to construct. But they are not naïve and know that wood decays faster than stone by hundreds of suns.

  His thoughts return to that fateful day when they had escaped from the castle. They always come back to that day. He has spent his entire life since clawing through thousands of heavy books writing down any prophecy that could be related to the child they had taken. One detail never seems to fit. They all speak of the child killing the Sorceress or the Sorceress killing the child yet none mention a time or a location of where it will take place. They also mention others who would play their parts in the saving or destroying of Atlantia. A dreamer, a wind walker and a seer will lead armies in a march against the shadow. The creations of
the Sorceress will be there too. A grand Summoner and a rare Gate-master will destroy two armies and a shadowed hunter will kill them all. A king who is not a king and a princess who will never be a queen will sign over the world to the darkness. And the child with wings of light, born of the souls of the world and the power of the shadow will bring everything to her heel. They are not the most comforting books he has read. But they are only what has been predicted and not what will come to pass—they can be changed.

  He is halfway down the first veranda when the calls come for him. His heart races and he thinks he might sick up his breakfast. Gossa-Mesa, the great tree of the Angels and their home in the sea of Gossamal has given birth to a young woman.

  “I guess the job of protecting the child will be mine after all.” He stares out from within the branches over the sea toward the mountains of Vev and what lies beyond. “I just hope she is our savior and not our destroyer.” He pushes the dread away the best he can before rushing to see the girl who is this age’s Prophecy child.

  For as far as sight travels the land is bare and dead. What once had been lush with life and color now stands sparse desert void of any living thing. No creature could survive one moment on the sand. Wind brings with it the smell of death, rotting flesh and vegetation. The dead had come so fast that shallow graves are scattered all across the land. Soon there were more bodies then graves could be dug; many being left to decay in the open. It was a curse set upon them by their own naivety and foolishness, a curse that soon claimed every living thing: plant, animal, man and even the earth.

  The magical Kingdom of Flambour, existed at the very heart of Atlantia, sealed within the dome of Valquilas. A land once full of hopes and dreams, peaceful and free; never once has this land been exposed to war, famine, murder or hopelessness. So as the end crept up and things started to change there was no concern because things had always been fine before. And everything died.